Or writing.
As part of a deal with her indoors I now write at least 200 words a day - or 5000 a month. Either on the ongoing novel ‘Coleopteran’ or a short story.
If I stick at this I can get the money required for the Masters course I want from our savings. Huzzah.
When it’s suitable I’ll drop some of the lines into CR, not that they’ll make much sense in isolation but anyway, it may happen just like this:
Part way through thinking about why horses are loved and cows are pitied Cook fell asleep. Dreams never came, his head becoming enthralled by the darkness hidden within deep sleep. It might have been the dripping, or the smell, or just the animal part of your brain that understands mortality far better than the conscious mind.
The voice everyone has that screams run, duck or oh shit. The voice that if you listen to it, it saves your life. Cook awoke and blinked once, something in the room snorted. He realised two things, he’d been asleep. How fucking fantastic was that. And that in all likelihood he was about to die. Which, on reflection, was not so good.
